


the theatre of dreams (okay, more like nightmares and fantasies, but still)

by thesecretdetectivecollection



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Carrick testimonial, JT having a crush, Jamie being a bit of a tough guy to the point of being almost a masochist but not quite, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-20
Updated: 2017-06-20
Packaged: 2018-11-16 11:26:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11252178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesecretdetectivecollection/pseuds/thesecretdetectivecollection
Summary: Jamie takes a knock during the Carrick testimonial. He tells JT and Phil and nobody else, determined not to show weakness at Old Trafford of all places.But JT's suspiciously helpful, and the crutches sort of give him away when Gary's waiting for him outside the dressing room.It's good to know that Old Trafford is still as wretched as it's always been.But then there are the good bits, too.





	the theatre of dreams (okay, more like nightmares and fantasies, but still)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blindbatalex](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blindbatalex/gifts).



   
Jamie’s never been one to get injured much. His longest time out during his career had been six months, when he’d been on the receiving end of an incredibly illegal tackle from Lucas Neill, who’d promptly gotten a red card while Jamie’d gotten a compound fracture.  


Gary, on the other hand, had gotten injured a lot, especially towards the end of his career. He’d spent most of the last couple years at United unavailable, watching from the stands as his teammates lifted trophies.  


(He wouldn’t lift the trophy in a suit, and he wasn’t about to change into full kit just to lift the trophy—he wasn’t a complete twat.)

  
That’s why karma has a good laugh when Gary clatters into him, desperate to score in front of the crowd at Old Trafford. Jamie doesn’t mind—he knows he’s here to be the pantomime villain, and he’s happy to play the part—Carrick can have the draw, but he’ll be damned if he rolls over and shows the Mancs his belly just because this match is for charity.

  
Gary grins as he gets up—the fucking ref doesn’t even blow the whistle, and he passes the ball to Giggs, who misses the target. Jamie gets up, a little slower than he would’ve in 2007, the decade showing in his legs. He starts jogging out and grimaces at the sharp pain in his knee.

  
Fucking _hell_.

  
_Not here. Anywhere but **here**_.

  
“JT—“ he calls out, when their side’s on the attack, Keano steady with the ball at his feet.

  
John Terry looks over at him, and Jamie jogs over slowly, trying to figure out how to minimize the pain.

  
“Took a knock. I’m gonna stay back, you go forward, if you want. But you need to cover for me, I can’t recover fast enough.”

  
“Carra, mate, you sure? You sure you don’t just want to get off the pitch? Somebody else can come in. We can shift to three at the back, even.”  


“No! I’m staying on. I can play through it. I just have to be smart. And careful. And you need to help me a bit, mate, that’s all. And tell Phil, too, yeah? If he can take a break from doing all those stepovers.”

  
JT looks at him again, something in him softening, and nods. “I’ve got you, Carra,” he says, an odd intensity in the words, and then he’s off.

  
There’s only fifteen minutes left, and Jamie spends his energy strategically. It helps a lot, that he knows full well how to play through pain. Worse pain than this, even. At least he can actually breathe. And he knows his body’s working to mask the pain, adrenaline making it feel less than it is.

  
He can’t get to everything, though, and when he reads Giggs’ run, and knows exactly when he’s going to cross, and orders his hips to turn, they can’t quite do it fast enough. The ball flies through his legs, because God clearly hates him.

  
He’s going to take shit for this for weeks, he knows it.

  
The final minutes are winding down, and Gary’s got the ball, rushing towards Jamie’s goal, and there’s just _no fucking way_. A draw, that’s all he’s willing to concede to United, just because it’s a testimonial, and Michael Carrick isn’t a bad guy and doesn’t deserve to lose his testimonial.

  
He ignores the pain in his knee. He ignores JT’s voice behind him, telling him he’s got it, to “leave it, Carra, _please_ —“

  
He catches Gary after a full sprint, each step agony on his knee, and clatters into him. His hand lands in a rather… inopportune spot as they go down, and it looks like he’s having a nice little fondle of Gary’s ass, but Gary’s already laughing, mouth curving up in a fond smile as he gets up. He looks at Carra and rolls his eyes, running up to catch up to the ball and make himself available for Scholesy to pass to. Jamie’s going to have everyone and their mother tweeting a video of that to him for the next month, he can just tell.  


Jamie lets a grimace onto his features as he manages to get to his feet and runs after him, back to recover to his position.  


JT’s got him covered, though, moving to his side for a moment while Phil clears the ball. He doesn’t shift back to position until after Jamie gets back.  


He gets a concerned look off him, but the final whistle blows a second later. He feels that old relief again—the relief of knowing he doesn’t have to hurt anymore. Not as much, anyway. But he fastens a smile to his face and hopes it reaches his eyes, going up to join the crowd around Carrick, congratulating him on a brilliant career.

  
JT comes up to him and throws him another look, silently asking if he’s okay, and it just makes Jamie miss Stevie more. Stevie would know just by looking at him that he _wasn’t_ okay, would come up and wrap an arm around his waist and let Jamie wrap an arm round his shoulders, taking some of his weight and pretending it was just out of affection, rumors about their sexuality be damned. But JT… Jamie just shrugs at him and gives him a grin, and it’s not enough, maybe—he still hovers—but he doesn’t insist on Jamie going to see the physio, either. Not yet.

  
Of course, JT knows about playing through injuries too. Just like he knows about pride, and he knows about being strong, especially at Old Trafford, where the crowd may looks like ordinary people but are more like sharks in disguise, circling, searching for any traces of Scouse (or indeed London Blue) blood in the water.

  
Gary catches up to him a few seconds later, a heavy hand on his shoulder and a quick, sweaty embrace.

  
“Gaz! You played well today. Not too bad, for a fat old man,” Jamie teases, leaning into him a little, easing the weight off his bad leg.

  
“Hey, come do a post-match interview with me. They want us both. We sell, apparently.” Gary says, rolling his eyes.

  
“ _I_ sell, Gaz. You just have to be there because the people will riot if they interview me without a Manc chaperone.” Jamie grins at him, mentally steeling himself for a second before walking towards the cameras, begging his body to cooperate. _Just a few more minutes. Just until I can get into the locker room and sit down._ Gary follows, catching up to him so they’re walking side by side.

  
They do the post-match and Jamie admits that Gary played well, doesn’t even add the qualifiers.

  
(“for the what, _five_ minutes he actually played?”)

  
“Better going forward than tracking back.” He says instead, and Gary’s beaming at him.

  
The interviewer asks him about being booed by Old Trafford, and he doesn’t know what to say, really—or he does, but he also wants to live long enough to make it home—so he just says that games like this are competitive, and everyone tries their best, even if it’s just for charity.

  
He mentions offhandedly that he’s going home, and he wishes the lads a good night. The smile drops off Gary’s face and he asks him why he’s not going to drinks afterwards, and Jamie can’t exactly say _my leg’s on fire and I need a shit ton of anti-inflammatories and the first bag of frozen vegetables I can find_ , so he settles for the next best thing.

  
“They’ll all be drunk and singing Glory Glory Man United, that’s why,” he says, voice perhaps verging on too fond, “so I’ll wish them all a good night and go home.”

  
The interviewer lets them go after that, and he and Gary go round, saying hello to everyone, and Jamie conveys Stevie’s regrets to Carrick, about not being able to make it.

  
Eventually, the players trickle into the tunnel, and Jamie’s walking next to Gary when JT throws an arm around him.

  
He leans in and lowers his voice. “Come see the physio, Carra. It looked bad.”

  
“I don’t need to,” Jamie says back, throwing Gary a glance to see if he’d caught what John had said.

  
“Please. For me?” It’s bizarrely intimate, considering JT is just… _JT_. He’s not _Stevie_ , though he seems to think he is, talking to Jamie like this. Maybe it’s just because he’s Jamie’s captain for the day.

 

“JT, mate, let’s talk about this later, yeah?”

  
JT looks at Gary, and comprehension dawns across his features. “Yeah, mate, sure. No problem. I’ll see you in the dressing room, then.”

  
Jamie’s almost in the dressing room, and Gary’s turned his back to go into the home dressing room, so he quits disguising his walk, allows himself to properly limp into the away dressing room.

  
JT’s sitting next to his spot with a bag of ice wrapped in a towel.

  
“Physio’s waiting for you, mate.”

  
“Help me?” Jamie mutters, quietly, reluctant to do himself any more damage than he already has, and JT nods, wrapping an arm around his waist and pulling Jamie’s arm across his shoulders, supporting his weight and helping him across the dressing room to the treatment table, where the physio’s waiting. Jamie describes the sharpness of the pain, describes the location of it. He looks up, and JT is still standing there, looking concerned, almost as if Jamie was one of his Chelsea teammates.

  
“JT. I know we were on the same team tonight, but you don’t have to be my captain anymore, mate.”

  
John just shrugs.

  
He stays until Jamie gets sentenced to the ice bath for awhile, and even then, he sits on the tiles by the bath, waiting for him.

  
“Are you going to the drinks thing after this?” he asks Jamie softly.

  
“Nah. Don’t want to make this any worse than it already is. It’s painkillers and ice tonight, maybe a beer or two on the sofa, and then off to bed.”

  
“I could come with you. Look after you, if you wanted.”

  
That’s alarmingly presumptuous, considering who JT is and who Jamie is and what their relationship has been up to this point.

  
“Thanks, mate, but it’s okay. I’ll call Stevie if I need help with anything. Go home to your family, JT. You going anywhere nice on vacation? I did mine already, a quick little trip to Ibiza between Sydney and this.”

  
“We might do Ibiza ourselves, but the kids, you know, they get bored, eventually. And they don’t speak much Spanish, you know how it is.”

  
“Yeah. My nieces and nephews have a lot of energy. They look at you all cute, and it’s Uncle Jamie this, Uncle Jamie that, I love you Uncle Jamie, can you take us to the zoo, Uncle Jamie, and suddenly you’re pushing a three kid push chair through a zoo that smells like animal shit and changing nappies on the counter in the men’s room.”

  
John laughs at that, and something in Jamie thaws. Maybe they could be mates, after this.

  
“You’re leaving Chelsea, then, eh?”

 

“I’m not telling you what I’m doing next, Carra!” JT laughs a little, but it’s brief and brittle, and when it’s faded, his expression grows pensive. “Mostly because I don’t know yet myself. I’ve talked to Stevie and Frankie about America. Stevie said it was a lot of traveling, long, long distances, and on commercial planes.”

 

“Yeah. He doesn’t like flying and he didn’t adjust well. But the freedom is incredible. Nobody follows the game, so you get maybe a couple fans a day, when you’re not actually at the training ground or at a match. When I went to visit him, he took me to the beach, we went grocery shopping, went to the shops, all of it. Barely anyone recognized us.”

 

“You and Stevie, then? You two are…?”

 

“Uh, no. Completely platonic. He knows me better than me own brothers, a lot of the time. It’s like I can hear him in me head, sometimes. He’s like part of me, like he’s got a space in me head where he lives rent-free. I reckon it’s like that with you and Lamps, too, JT.”

 

“Not—not quite, but I get what you mean. Listen, I know you’re around in London a lot these days, Carra, for Sky and everything. If you’re ever free, we could have dinner, maybe?”

 

“John, your missus—“

 

“She gave me permission. You’re on my list. Well, you kind of… you kind of _are_ my list, J. I’ve always had a bit of a thing for you. Crush, I guess, from when we were kids, and it just… never went away. Just got stronger.” John’s flushing a little, but he’s clearly determined to take his chance and confess his feelings like a proper adult.

 

Jamie blushes hard at the implications. “I’m… flattered, JT. Maybe—maybe I’ll take you up on it. But it’s going to be awhile until I’m back in the studio, and I’m usually quite busy when I’m in London, just there for a day or two, you know.”

 

“Right. Worth a shot, I guess. The offer stands, Carra, if you ever change your mind. You have my number, just let me know, okay? I’ll see you around, then, mate.” JT holds out his hand, and Jamie shakes it firmly, and it’s surprisingly not awkward—not as awkward as Jamie had anticipated, at least.

 

JT nods and smiles at him a little, and turns to walk away. Jamie soaks for a while longer, and he’s one of the last to leave the dressing room, heading for his car. He gets dressed, practicing a bit with the crutches the physio’d given him, going round the dressing room.

 

When he finally leaves, Gary’s standing there, waiting for him. His jaw drops when he sees Jamie, and Jamie cringes. The crutches had been a fucking bad idea, he’d known it as soon as he got them from the physio.

 

“What the _fuck_ happened to you?!”

 

“Nothing.” Admittedly this is a sticky situation, but Jamie talks for a living, which basically makes him a professional bullshitter. He can get past this.

 

(Probably.)

 

“You’ve got crutches, mate.”

 

“Yeah,” Jamie scoffs, “but I don’t _need_ ‘em. Somebody else left ‘em behind, I was just going to return ‘em. To someone else.”

 

“Who?”

 

“Seedorf. He… pulled a hamstring.” It’s a weak excuse. Transparent. Pulled hamstrings don’t even require crutches. It had just been the first injury he’d thought of—the thing that had caused Stevie to not be able to make it today. Fucking BT Sport. How different this day would’ve been if only his best mate could’ve been here with him. Jamie takes the crutches out and reluctantly tries to put his full weight onto his leg, walking a few steps forward. The adrenaline’s left his body, and the physio’d wrapped him up, so he actually can’t straighten his leg, not even to walk properly.

 

“You’re limping, Carra. Don’t be a fucking idiot, just use the goddamn crutches. Who knows how much damage you’ve done to yourself.”

 

Jamie lets out a sigh and sticks the crutches back under his arms. “I know. Took a knock. Knee hurts like a bitch. Might’ve done a ligament, even. I’m going home to ice it and take some painkillers. I’ll give it a few days, see if it goes, before I go see a proper doctor. I usually recover pretty quick. What are you even still doing here? Aren’t you going out with the lads?”

 

“Phil texted me. Said that you were getting treated for something, knew I’d want to know. He also said that _JT_ looked really concerned. Happen to know why that was, James?”

 

“Nope. Just being a mate, I guess. He’s a decent lad, John is.”

 

“You hate him.” It’s a simple statement of fact, like Gary happens to know the fundamental truth, as well as he knows the sun rises in the east and sets in the west.

 

“No, Gary, _you_ hate him. You always have. I hated _Chelsea_ , and that was back when I was playing. He’s always been decent to me and Stevie.”

 

“He kept you out of the England side! That’s why you retired so early from international football!” Gary protests.

 

“And you think I hold that against him? I don’t. He’s a better player than I was. He’s the best center-back to ever play in the Prem, of course he got into England over me. And I retired because I didn’t care about England like I cared about Liverpool. Didn’t run in me blood the same way. The losses were sad, the wins were nice. It wasn’t devastating and exhilarating like Liverpool was. And when I was needed, I went back.” He takes a few steps, taking deep breaths. “Come on, Gaz, the least you can do is walk and talk. I need to get home.”

 

“What even happened?”

 

“I told you, I took a knock, that’s all.”

 

“Is that why you aren’t coming to the drinks thing?”

 

“It’s… a factor. I’m going to be doing my drinking at home tonight, if it’s all the same to you.” Jamie focuses on the crutches—he hates the way they dig into his underarms. He’d forgotten how annoying they were.

 

“It isn’t.”

 

“Excuse me?” Jamie looks up from the ground—he always looks at the ground when he’s got crutches, to help keep him from tripping.

 

“It isn’t all the same to me. I’d rather you be at the drinks thing with me and the boys.”

 

“Okay? That’s really… kind of you, but I can’t go out tonight, Gaz. I physically _can’t_. So I am going to drive home as soon as I get out of this fucking stadium.”

 

“Oi, don’t you talk about the Theatre of Dreams like that,” Gary teases. It lands awkwardly though, feels defensive.

 

Jamie just gives him a _look_ , rolling his eyes. _Theatre of Dreams? More like a fucking nightmare factory._

 

Gary realizes anew how much Jamie must absolutely _hate_ this place that he loves, just like Gary hates Anfield. He honestly tries to imagine hating Old Trafford and can’t make himself do it.

 

“Have a good night, Gary. And tell Phil I appreciate the concern, but next time he can just ask if I’m okay instead of sending his big brother to do it, okay?”

 

“Phil told me because he knew I’d want to know, James. I’m sorry you got hurt playing this match when I know I was the one who asked you to—“

 

“Gaz, _Carrick_ asked me to. And Stevie thought it was a good idea and accepted for both of us. Said it’d be nice, playing together again, Sydney and then today. Almost like old times. So much for that plan, I guess. But he’s always had sensitive hammies, that lad.”

 

“So I didn’t have anything to do with you playing today?”

 

Jamie pauses a little. “I wouldn’t say that, mate. You were probably the reason I wanted to play the full ninety. Wanted to make sure I didn’t miss you.” He walks down the hallway— _walks on, walks on_ , with a defiant little thrill in his chest. Gary trails behind him like a puppy, catching up quickly because Jamie’s on crutches, moving slower than his usual pace.

 

“Why was JT so interested though?”

 

“He… it’s really between me and him, what happened, Gaz. Could you just leave it, please?”

 

“Tell me.”

 

“I’m asking you as a friend, Gary, to just drop it.” Gary could, and should, just leave it at that. Jamie’s never asked him for any favors, and he’d definitely never drawn on their friendship to ask for anything, either. But he can feel himself reverting to his youth, when any secrets he’d wanted to know and hadn’t been told had felt like personal affronts.

 

“Tell me what happened, James.” Jamie can see the way Gary’s jaw sets, the way the lines around his mouth deepen slightly, and sighs.

 

“He asked me out! He asked me out, okay? Are you happy now? That’s what happened. He asked if I wanted to get dinner sometime when I was in London.”

 

“Are you fucking kidding me? He’s got a missus—“

 

“This is _John Terry_ , Gaz. His track record sort of speaks for itself, doesn’t it? Besides, he said she was okay with it. Apparently he has a list, of people he’s allowed to pursue.”

 

“And how many people are on this list? Who else is on there?”

 

“I—I dunno, but I think… I think just one.”

 

“So why’s he asking you out then?”

 

Jamie looks at him incredulously, blushing a little bit.

 

“Well, I’m the one, Gaz, that’s how he made it sound.”

 

“But you said no, of course, so it’s all done now. Weird, weird man. If the papers get wind of this—”

 

Jamie’s blushing a little. “I didn’t say _no_ , exactly? I tried to let him down gently, and he said the offer was still open. I was thinking about it. He’s a decent lad. And if his lady’s okay with it… I dunno. I just thought, maybe...”

 

“Well, stop. Stop thinking that,” Gary says sternly.

 

“Why? I’m single, he’s… not single, but he’s allowed, at least, so he’s fair game—“

 

Gary stops abruptly. “You can’t.”

 

“I could, Gaz. Might turn out okay.”

 

“No. You _can’t_.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“He has a family! He has a wife, J! He has _kids_! You don’t deserve to be his dirty little secret, and he doesn’t deserve to have you. It won’t last.”

 

“Maybe I don’t need something that lasts. Maybe I just want a one night stand.”

 

Gary pauses and looks at him, a long moment of bizarrely electric eye contact. “You deserve better. You deserve to be someone who’ll put you first. You deserve to be somebody’s entire world.”

 

“Thanks, Gary,” Jamie says softly, sighing a little, “but where am I supposed to find someone like that?”

 

Gary takes a few steps closer, so he’s standing in front of Jamie, eye level, since the crutches make him a little shorter than his full height. Gary moves slowly, pressing a hand to his cheek, searching his eyes for some sort of sign and apparently finding it, because he leans in and presses his mouth to Jamie’s, a chaste little kiss that Jamie can somehow feel through to his very core.

 

“You could try looking across the studio, James,” Gary whispers, pulling away.

 

Jamie looks at him then, and somehow the shitty fluorescent lights catch Gary’s eyes perfectly, they just come _alive_ , a warm brown that Jamie could get used to. He grins slowly, not breaking eye contact.

 

“You know, Gary, I’m _injured_. Go hang out with the lads tonight, have fun. But after you sober up tomorrow, maybe you could pick up a pizza and come to mine, seeing as I might be needing someone to nurse me back to health. Might need someone to kiss me better.”

 

“I’m not wearing a slutty nurse outfit, so get that idea out of your head, J.”

 

“I… wasn’t thinking about that until you brought it up, mate. I was thinking more along the lines of playing doctor, if I’m honest. But now it’s in me head, Gaz, and that’s what you’re getting for your birthday. Congratulations. Dunno if they make sexy nurse outfits for men, but I’ll figure something out. Or maybe a doctor would be better? A white coat and a stethoscope with nothing under, coming to give me my medicine…”

 

Gary kisses him again, if only to shut him up. It isn’t as innocent as the first time.

 

Jamie doesn’t mind. He might be on crutches, but it’s right up there with the best memories he has of Old Trafford.


End file.
